Caretaker
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Stephen is used to looking after himself. He's done it his entire life, and it's not about to change. Until Connor Temple, that is.


Stephen _hates_ hospitals. He hates nurses, doctors, clinics, anything even remotely resembling a hospital or having to do with a hospital. A lot of it has to do with the old saying about one never getting past first impressions. He got his first impression of a hospital at nine, being woken up by his mum at 4am to take his only sibling, two years older than him Audrina, to casualty. She walked in on her own two feet. She left the next day in a hearse. After that, he wouldn't step inside a hospital if he was paid to. Even if he was injured, he'd rather take the chance taping himself up than to visit one of those bloody places. Doctors were just as bad. To him, a doctor was a sadist in a white coat that liked to play God and watch lesser people scream, and Stephen was more than capable of putting on his own Mickey Mouse plasters, _thank you very much._

The anomalies and the ARC, however, forced him to rearrange that a bit. There were times that he had no choice but to go to a hospital, like when the artheropleurid got fangs in him and dosed him up with venom. If he'd have been able to see straight, much less talk coherently, he would have protested going to a hospital to the ends of the earth. Once he'd been patched up, it'd been an exercise in restraint to not run screaming out of there as soon as all bloody possible. The second time he'd been forced into one of the damn torture palace was when they were tracking down that ginger bloke, Connor's friend, that was stupid enough to try and steal a dodo and got infected with the parasite. Being in the building had made his skin crawl and his stomach churn, and only by focusing solely on the task at hand did he keep from bolting.

Even the medics at the ARC made him uneasy. Change the uniform all they'd like, but a doctor was a doctor. Not even Palmer, affectionately referred to as the Amazonian and the tallest woman he'd ever met at 6'5 in her bare feet, could convince him to make a visit to the ARC infirmary. She had _forced_ him into the infirmary once, after he'd gotten clawed up good by the creature of the week, a dog-sized Lycaenops, but only by way of drugging him with painkillers against his will and then dragging him in once he'd gone under. His rule on injuries was, so long as he could walk on his own, then it wasn't bad enough to need a hospital, and even then, there were exceptions. He might not be able to walk on a sprained ankle, but he could wrap it up on his own, no scrubs-wearing sadist required.

He was well used to patching up his own scrapes and bruises, probably more used to it than any normal person should be. Hell, he'd put in and then consequentially taken out his own stitches before. Nobody else ever offered to help him, mostly because they were afraid to. Even Cutter knew to not touch on that particular issue. Abby was keen enough to pick up on it as well, and she never said anything of it, either; he appreciated her for that.

On the other hand, though, was one fumbling, awkward, clumsy student by name of Connor Temple. The nerd of epic proportion seemed to attract trouble and danger simply by _breathing_ in the vicinity of an anomaly, and Stephen had lost count of how many times he'd pulled the boy out of the claws and teeth of whatever new creature the anomaly disgorged by the scruff of his neck. It was a wonder that Connor wasn't bruised black-and-blue head to toe for as much as he either fell, tripped, or got knocked over. Or, it was also quite possible that he was hurt and they merely couldn't see it beneath the multitude of brightly coloured, mismatching, too-big clothes. Seriously, the nerd dressed like he'd been attacked by a secondhand vintage shop. But what Stephen also noticed was that, despite the infinite amount of trouble Connor inevitably wound up in, he never actually admitted to getting hurt. Oh, he'd whinge plenty, but when medics came 'round to give everyone the once-over, he'd wave them off and scurry away.

Despite himself, Stephen found himself wondering about Connor.

* * *

An ankylosaurid in a warehouse, Stephen decided, was a mix that ends badly no matter what the circumstances might be. Seven metres long and two and a half metres wide, a fully grown Euoplocephalus snuffling around the empty warehouse was a solid two tonnes of living history that could trample any one of them flat. It was a prehistoric tank, coated in a tough, bony hide that was covered in plates of body armour. Even its short neck was protected by bone rings, moving with its wide body slung low to the ground on four trunk-like legs. It was a sick twist of fate that this one was not only fully grown but also highly skittish. A car backfiring outside had sent it into a panic, stampeding through the warehouse like a bulldozer. Stephen had to jump through an already-broken window just to avoid being run over by the behemoth, and landing in broken glass had left him with plenty of cuts on his hands, though his knees had fared better, protected by the denim of his trousers.

He sat on the tailgate of the Hilux, teeth gritted as he cleaned the grit out of the small cuts with disinfectant then smoothed sticking plasters over them. A light touch on his hair startled him halfway from his skin, and he very nearly punched Connor in the face out of reflex before realising it was the geek. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped, irritated by the persistent stinging of his wounds – it was always the small ones that hurt the most – and by the fact that he'd been startled. He didn't startle easily, and that _Connor Temple_ had managed to creep up on him rankled.

The nerd frowned slightly at his sharp tone. "You've got blood up 'ere," he said, making a gesture to his own forehead with one hand. Today, his choice of ridiculous fingerless gloves were dark grey and looked woolen as well.

Stephen lifted a hand to his forehead, brushing his skin; flakes of dried blood came off at his fingertips, and when he brushed his hairline, he felt a sharp pain and the tackiness of not-quite-dried blood on his fingertips. "Must've nicked myself on the glass," he said shortly. "I'll be fine." Usually, once he said those three words, nobody bothered to pester him any longer because their words would only fall on deaf ears.

Of course, perhaps he should've remembered just who he was talking to.

Connor frowned again. "Here, just let me – " He reached up as if to touch the wound. Stephen's hand came up in a blur, gripping him tight around the wrist despite the sharp throb that it sent through the cuts across his palms, and he landed a glare at the nerd that could've levelled a city block. Much to his shock, though, Connor didn't blanch or back away, just stared right back at him, his dark eyes hard and unblinking. For a moment, they were caught at impasse, glaring at each other, but then the tracker relaxed his grip fractionally without letting go. Connor twisted his wrist out of Stephen's hand, then reached up to the injury once more.

It went against every fibre in Stephen's instinct to let anyone touch him without his permission, especially around a wound, but he found that he couldn't move, tense and still. Connor smoothed his fringe back with a surprising gentleness, careful not to touch the sluggishly bleeding cut. Holding Stephen's hair out of the way with one hand, he reached down with the other to pull the gauze pad soaked in antiseptic from Stephen's hand, which rested limp on his lap. Stephen gritted his teeth at the insidious burn of antiseptic in the cut, hands clenching in fists, but Connor was still showing that surprising amount of delicacy, gingerly wiping away the blood, careful not to apply too much pressure or touch it directly. Setting down the gauze, the nerd then took up a few butterfly bandages and began sticking them in place, holding the edges of the cut together. Stephen remained impassively still, staring straight out ahead without truly seeing. Once Connor had smoothed on the last plaster, he lowered his hands, took a step back, then walked away without another word.

In his mind, Stephen began rearranging his view of Connor Temple.

* * *

Pyroraptors were about the size of an overgrown chicken, miniaturized versions of the raptors they had encountered in the shopping centre all those months ago, but that didn't mean they were any less vicious. Or that just because their claws and teeth were a tenth of the size of the big version meant they caused a tenth of the pain. They were quick buggers, too, and it'd taken Stephen a few hours to get them all, even with his exceptional aim. The anomaly had appeared in a storage warehouse, too, so there were plenty of shelves and boxes and crates to sneak around in. One of the little bastards had sprung out at him, having gotten up onto one of the shelves by some means, and set claws and teeth in his arm.

"Bloody sodding..." Stephen cursed again as he fumbled and inadvertently prodded one of his own wounds, making the blood flow anew. Of course, it would just figure that he was right-handed and the pyroraptor had chosen his right arm for a chew toy.

He didn't startle when a pair of gloved hands took up the bandages he'd dropped; this time, he'd heard Connor's approach. The young man didn't say a word, an almost-startling change, inspected Stephen's injured wrist and hand, then pulled a small tube of antiseptic from one of the many pockets of his voluminous coat. It was something they'd all taken to carrying around with them, stuffed in their pockets whenever there was a shout – antiseptic cream, sticking plasters, flick knife, mini-torches, things of that sort. With anomalies, who knew when they'd need it?

Again, Stephen didn't pull away or protest as Connor drew his arm forward, daubing the cream across the ragged bites and burning scratches with that same incredible delicacy. In a way, Stephen wasn't too surprised by Connor's dexterity – most men would never touch a woman as gently and caringly as Connor touched the inner wires, circuits, and infinite small parts of the ADD. He made a study of watching the younger man's fingers as they pressed a gauze pad over the deepest bites and began wrapping it up snug. He had the hands of an inventor or a musician, long-fingered and elegant without being at all feminine. It hardly even hurt, Connor was so careful about it. The end result was Stephen looked like he'd gotten a mummy's hand to replace his own, wrapped in bandages from his knuckles to halfway up his forearm, only his fingers left uncovered. The nerd smoothed down the bandage, tying it in place, then gave a small nod, as if approving of his own work; he walked away without another word.

Stephen found himself watching the young man go.

* * *

Having an irritable ceratopsian capsize the 4x4 he sat in and then subsequently having it rolled halfway down a hill was a lesson in pain, Stephen decided, sitting with teeth gritted as Connor sat beside him, carefully pulling pieces of broken glass out of his skin, disinfecting the cuts, then placing sticking plasters over them.

The anomaly shout this time had disgorged something entirely new: Torosaurus. They were smaller relatives of the Triceratops, though these had a far more impressive frill and much longer brow horns, over a metre in length. The small mercy was that it'd appeared in New Forest, far away from prying eyes. There were eight in all, five adults, two juveniles, and a small calf, and they'd moved slow and lumberingly, not even minding when the team came up around them. The behemoths were aware that the humans were too small and flimsy to present any sort of threat, though they made sure to keep far from the calf lest they upset the mother.

The herd hadn't liked New Forest anyways, preferring the muggy Cretaceous to the rather nippy environment of England, and the Torosaurus looked ready to head back through the anomaly on their own, for once leaving the team without the task of chasing and wrangling them back through. One of the juveniles, though, had taken up an interest in the 4x4 driven out, being almost the same size as the vehicle, wondering what exactly it was. Stephen had been lucky enough to be sitting in the back, able to watch the herbivore, but despite every warning he'd given, the soldier in the front seat had done just the wrong thing: started the engine in an attempt to scare it off.

Well, scare the juvenile it did, though it didn't go running for the anomaly as intended. Startled, the spots on its frill blushing livid red, the Torosaurus lowered its head, frill rising like a battle flag, horns forward, and charged the 4x4. The metre-long spears of keratin and bone had punched through the steel sides of the vehicle with a sound not unlike an anvil being dropped into a skip, and Stephen had to throw himself backwards to avoid being impaled. The soldier had a narrow miss as well, barely able to scramble out of the way. Snorting and grunting, the Torosaurus got its nosehorn under the body frame and had flipped the vehicle entirely, throwing it over, and charged again, rolling the 4x4 down the incline, turning what had been a fully intact motor vehicle into a mass of twisted framework and burst tyres.

Granted, Stephen didn't remember much of that, as he'd been thrown clear and had been lying on his back, trying to remember how to breathe. Which was how he ended up being once more doctored by a nerd. Once it'd deemed the 4x4 neutralised, the juvenile had gone stomping back through the anomaly to rejoin its family, though the anomaly remained open, requiring the team to stay. The soldier responsible was getting torn up one side and down the other by the slick new captain Lester hired on, bloke called Becker.

"Damn!" he spat angrily as a particuarly painful bit of glass was tugged out of his flesh.

Connor didn't apologise, merely said, "It'll hurt like a bitch if you heal with glass under the skin. Hold still."

Stephen wanted to ask how the nerd would ever know something like that but held his tongue. He'd learnt it was pointless to argue with Connor like this. The glass was his biggest problem, having the misfortune of being thrown about in it when the vehicle rolled, though by the way it hurt to take a deep breath, he probably had a few bruised ribs, too, and there was a painful knot on the back of his head that throbbed with fresh pain every other heartbeat or so.

"There. Last bit," proclaimed Connor, sticking on the last of the plasters. He'd collected a small pile of glass shards beside him. Straightening up, he said, "Head down."

Obligingly, he tilted his head so the younger man could see the swollen lump. He gritted his teeth as fingers gently slid through his hair, feeling around the back of his head, but he didn't pull away. He had gotten used to this, somehow, used to having Connor look after him like his own personal medic, lab coat and sadisim not included. When had that happened? How had Stephen become so adjusted to the presence of the young man that it no longer bothered him, no longer surprised him? After years of refusing to let anyone anywhere near him in terms of being looked after, here he was, sitting in the middle of New Forest, having tech-geek extraordinaire Connor Temple patch him up?

Still, he found that it didn't truly bother him, not as much as it should have. In all honesty, he actually...sort of...liked it. It was a good feeling, having someone else look after him, treat him gently and kindly, be worried over his injuries. Especially someone like Connor, who didn't know how to be dishonest with his emotions if he tried, that wouldn't demand or even expect anything in return but to know that Stephen was looked after. And this, well, this wasn't so bad. Relaxing. Soothing, even. Pleasant.

"A bit of blood and one hell of a goose egg, but I don't think you've got a concussion. Skull's too thick for that," Connor muttered, drawing Stephen out of his thoughts, and the older man couldn't resist elbowing the boy's ribs. Pulling back and allowing Stephen to straighten up, he said, "I'll tape up your ribs back at the ARC." With that, he jumped down from the back of the Hilux and went back over to the anomaly to see if it showed any signs of deterioration.

Cutter moved over to him, arms folded across his chest. "You've threatened to shoot medics before if they came near you," he told Stephen matter-of-factly. "But you'll let _him_ fix you up?"

Stephen nodded slowly, his head aching already.

"Why him?"

"Because he's Connor."


End file.
